Family Ties
by The Fantasy Spinner
Summary: It's been four years since the war ended, and the Dursleys are out of Harry Potter's life for good. That is, until a string of attacks on Muggles put the Dursleys' very lives in danger, forcing them to live with their least favorite relative. Will the Dursleys reconnect with their nephew and cousin, or will they continue to live apart? (Weekly updates!)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_The Mysterious Letter_

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

The Little Whinging Post Office was a small building, tucked neatly out of the way of the bigger, glossier supermarkets and department stores. It was not often visited by many except the local mailman, and as such the stranger who slipped into the post office on a late May evening went unnoticed to all but the one employee, Ernest Hathaway, who was currently working the night shift.

Ernest could not remember much about the stranger—his face, when he thought about it later, seemed vaguely out-of-focus in his mind's eye. The stranger—a man, judging by his build and voice—had asked to mail a letter to Mr. Vernon Dursley, 4 Privet Drive, Surrey. This was nothing new—of course, most people posted mail from their homes, but he might be from out of town. The man, oddly enough, seemed rather confused on some of the finer aspects of mailing a letter, and Ernest had to explain it to him, which seemed rather strange, but you never knew with these funny types. In fact, the most blatantly _odd _detail about the stranger was the small device that he slipped into the envelope—rather like a clear plastic ball, with a bright light flaring in the middle. Ernest was rather intrigued by this, but as he was not the nosy type, he kept his mouth shut and mailed the letter without complaint.

The stranger left with a sweep of his dark traveling coat, and Ernest resumed filing papers. He would think nothing of the incident until the following morning, when he would see the cover of the local newspaper.

_AREA HOUSE EXPLODES_

_None injured; Police looking into gas leak_

_SURREY—A local house was destroyed yesterday by an explosion that left the house completely ravaged. The residents of the house— Mr. Vernon Dursley, Mrs. Petunia Dursley, and their son, Dudley—returned from brunch at a friend's house to find their house in ruins. The explosion, which harmed no other houses or people, was deemed enough to kill the Dursleys if they had remained in the house. Though the police are still investigating, Police Comissioner Elton Fitzgerald stated this morning that the case was "most likely a gas leak," and that it would be "patched up in no time." The Dursleys did not offer any comments on the case, aside from the statement that "It was perfectly ordinary, small incidents like this are absolutely normal." Police will continue to investigate the matter._

Harry Potter glanced up from the newspaper clipping placed on his desk, running a hand absently through his dark hair. It seemed an ordinary story—a gas leak, a small explosion—and yet…

"It wasn't a gas leak, was it," Harry said. He glanced up at Hermione, who was currently pacing across the room, fiddling with a brown curl.

"No, it wasn't," Hermione said. "It's unknown what exactly it is, or who targeted them. But an explosion in your relative's house, four years after the war…it's about as likely as an 'accidental' dementor. Except in this case, the target clearly wasn't you. Not directly, anyway,"

Harry looked back at Hermione, gauging the uncomfortable set of her shoulders, the way she avoided looking at him.

"DMLE wants something, don't they," Harry said.

"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione said. "This attack is just one of the latest in a string of attacks on Muggles, especially Muggles who had any connection at all with Dumbledore's Army and the Order. Whoever it is wants to cause nervousness, unease among the public, making them feel sorry for siding with Dumbledore during the war. Catch whoever's behind this…it could really help people, Harry. And of course, the Ministry wants it to be _known _that this is under investigation, so…"

"…They want me to do it," finished Harry. Hermione nodded and Harry pressed his hands to his temples, thinking. He had been expecting this from the moment he saw the newspaper clipping; it was a strategic move on the Ministry's part, to prevent any more people from regretting the decisions made in the second war. All the same, he felt rather uneasy about having to speak to his relatives again. But it would be worth it, wouldn't it, to solve the case? Wasn't that the reason he joined the Aurors anyway? Sighing, he spun around in his chair to face Hermione.

"Yeah, fine. I'll do it," he said. Hermione smiled (Harry had a sudden suspicion she knew this would happen from the start. It was _Hermione,_ after all), but still looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Well, there is one more thing…" Hermione said. "The Dursleys are at great risk of magical attack. Whoever is attacking them might strike again now he knows his target is involved in the case. To put it simply, Harry…they can't stay in the Muggle world anymore. Not until this case is closed."

"Where will they go, then?" Harry said. "They can't stay in the Muggle world, and they could hardly stay in the Leaky Cauldron…" He had a sudden, fleeting image of Uncle Vernon's face when he saw the Knight Bus.

"Well," Hermione said. "There is one place they could stay, where they wouldn't have to pass as wizards. Where they could still be secure."

"Where?"

"Grimmauld Place."

"You're kidding," said Harry.

"I'm not, I'm really not," Hermione said. "We really, _really _don't want to ask this from you, Harry, but there's no other option. Believe me, I hate the Dursleys just as much as you do. But—do you really want to endanger their lives, Harry?"

Harry's head spun and he gazed at a spot on the back wall, rubbing his eyes. To put up with the Dursleys…the people who had made his life a living hell for sixteen years…to have them in his _house..._to give them food, and shelter, when they had done nothing for him…

And yet for all their cruelty, for all their vile ways, the Dursleys had given him some measure of protection. They had given him sixteen years of a grudging place in their househould, a plate with food, although not enough. _And besides,_ a little voice in his head sounded, _how would you be any better than them, if you cast them out to get killed?_

"Fine," he said. His voice sounded strange, distant. "The Dursleys can stay with me."

Hermione said nothing, only covered his hand with her own as she rose to leave. "I'll tell Sandra to send you the case files," she said as she opened the door. "Don't forget, Ron wants you to stop by the shop tomorrow." Harry mumbled a response as she left, sinking his head into his hands. Only one thought kept ringing around his brain.

This was going to be hell.

**If you enjoyed/hated/have improvement for this story, please review! It makes my week.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Miss Brown_

It was a crisp, golden August morning, as fresh and perfect as the first bite of an apple. Sunlight streamed weakly in through the windows of a darkened hotel room, where Dudley Dursley was snoring. His wide chest rose and fell softly with his breaths, mouth half-open as he splayed his arms and legs in a tangle of itchy cotton blankets. On the wooden nightstand next to him sat an alarm clock, its hands currently pointing to 10:37. For one peaceful moment, nothing moved; his world, tumultuous as it had been lately, was at peace.

Until his mother screamed.

Dudley jerked awake, heart already racing, hands clammy from sweat. Scrambling out of his blankets, he pulled a thin t-shirt over his head as he raced into the kitchen, mind inventing possibilities—a murderer, a burglar—

The woman sitting opposite his mother in the kitchen seemed to be neither a murderer or a burglar. On the contrary, she looked rather more like a film star than anything else. She had dramatic features—a heart-shaped face, heavily lidded eyes shimmering with gold shadow, chestnut hair in carefully preened curls that gleamed under the fluorescent light of the kitchen. She was dressed fashionably, if rather girlishly, in a tight dress made out of some glimmering fabric, and was currently delicately sipping from a teacup, ignoring the fact that the woman she was talking to had just screamed bloody murder.

"Mum?" Dudley panted, slightly out of breath. "Is everything alright?"

The woman in the chair turned at the sound of his voice, and it was then that Dudley saw what had made his mother scream. Slashing across the side of her face, previously hidden from view, were three angry red scars. They trailed across her neck and down to the neckline of her dress before disappearing beneath the gauzy fabric. It was as if some horrible beast had mauled her face, leaving behind twisted masses of scar tissue that twisted her face into a sad grimace as she beamed at him.

"Hello," she said cheerily, apparently not at all conscious of the fact that Dudley was gaping at her. "You must be Dudley Dursley." The woman—a young woman, rather, right about Dudley's age—extended a hand glimmering with jeweled rings. Still rather shocked, Dudley took it, unable to take his eyes off the scars lining her face. She had a strong grip, Dudley noticed.

"Yeah, that's me," he mumbled, finally tearing his gaze from her scars to meet her hazel eyes.

"My name's Lavender Brown," she continued. "I work with the Muggle Protection Agency. I've just been talking to your mother about the recent explosion at your house."

"Wait a minute," Dudley said. "_Muggles? _So…you're…you're one of their sort, then? What are you doing _here?_"

The woman—Lavender, she had said—looked slightly miffed at being called one of _their lot,_but she shrugged it off. "The recent explosion, Dudley, at your house? That wasn't a gas leak. We—the Ministry of Magic—have reason to believe that there was a terrorist attack, targeting your house."

Dudley's mother paled slightly, her knuckles white as she reached for Dudley's hand. He gripped hers tightly, not quite believing what he was hearing.

They were _done _with the wizards. That bloke Diggle had said so. That whole business was over years ago, so why was this happening now? He said as much to Lavender, and she grinned ruefully.

"You're right. You-Kn—Voldemort is gone. But he's still got a few followers, scattered here and there. We believe that it was one of those followers who attacked your house."

"B—but," his mother spoke for the first time, her voice trembling slightly. "These people are _magic! _If they want to get at us…they could find us anywhere, with those owls and those dementors and all their other magical things! We can't be safe here!"

"No," Lavender's voice had lost its cheery tone. "You're not safe here. That's why I'm going to have ask you to move to a more secure location from the time being."

"A more secure location? What does that mean?" Dudley said.

"Currently," Lavender said, "There are five magical residences in Britain that have the security required to house civilians in danger of their lives. Of these, three are under Ministry control, and one is owned by Celestina Warbeck, the famous wizarding singer. Fortunately, there is one person who has agreed to take you in," Her eyes flickered to Dudley. "The Ministry of Magic has assigned you to stay in the house of Harry Potter."

"What?"

"_What?"_

"I understand this might be difficult for you," Lavender said soothingly. "But we assure you, as the Auror—that's the wizard police, kind of—in charge of your case, Har—Auror Potter is more than qualified to take care of you, and has been so kind as to grant you residence. Personally," she said, "I'd consider yourselves lucky. You're probably the safest family in all of Britain." Rising, she extracted a folder from her purse and slid it onto the table. "Here's more information about your move, if you'd like. A representative from the Ministry will be here in two days' time to pick you up for departure. If you have any questions, call this number," She slid a slip of paper onto the table. "Now I'm sorry, but I've really got to run. Goodbye."

Picking up her purse, she tottered out the door in her high heels, leaving Dudley's head spinning and his nerves burning with questions. They were going to _stay _with Harry? Harry was going to _let _them stay with him? People were _attacking _their house?

Distraction was provided by Vernon slamming the door open, carrying the newspaper and a hefty bag of groceries. "Just went to see the insurance agent," he said cheerily. "They said they'll cover everyth…Pet?" he said, catching a glance of Petunia's pale face. "Dudley? What's going on? What happened?"

Dudley sighed. This was going to be hell.

* * *

Four figures stood on a damp, drizzly street in London, their heads bent close together as they pored over something. At first glance, this would seem sinister and somewhat ominous. A second look, however, would show that two of the figures were rather bulky and out of shape, not to mention the fact that the third, a woman, was wearing a salmon-colored pea coat. In fact, the only figure that seemed properly intimidating was the fourth, a tall, strongly built black man who towered over the rest; this effect was alleviated by his cape-like clothing, which was a garish shade of purple.

The four figures, were, in fact, not secret assassins, but Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the current Minister of Magic. The Dursleys did not know this—all they knew was that they were standing in the rain, looking for a house that didn't exist.

"All right," Vernon Dursley growled. "Where is this house anyway? Some rat-hole tucked away, I bet. As if that foolish boy wouldn't squander any money he got his paws on,"

"I assure you, sir," said Kingsley's cool, deep voice, "that your living conditions are perfectly hospitable. At the moment, your nephew's residence is under a Fidelius Charm—it is rendered untraceable, unplottable, and for all intents and purposes nonexistent—unless, of course, you are given entrance."

"Given entrance?" Dudley asked. "What does that mean, given entrance? Do we need, like, a ticket or something? 'Cause we don't have any—"

Kingsley Shacklebolt's mouth twitched slightly, and Dudley tried to push down the swell of annoyance that he was being condescended to.

"Not at all," Kingsley said. "It's as simple as this." From his pocket, he extracted a plain white piece of paper, which he tapped with—a wand, Dudley thought they were called. The next moment, he gasped—words had appeared onto the paper, written in an angular scrawl that seemed burned into the cream parchment.

_Harry James Potter currently resides at 12 Grimmauld Place, London_

Dudley glanced up at the townhouses in front of them, scanning the golden numbers glistening on the doors. _10…11…13? "_I don't—" he said in confusion, glancing at Kingsley.

"Think about what you just read," Kingsley replied, glancing briefly back at Dudley's parents. Dudley repeated the words in his head for a second, then gave a shout of terror. Out of the crack between numbers 11 and 13, a house was emerging, shooting up like a fast-growing weed, pushing the other houses out of the way until a vast townhouse emerged. Dudley's mother gave a small squeak. Kingsley did not seemed perturbed in the slightest—rather, he strode toward the house, motioning for them to follow. Dudley exchanged a glance with his father—Vernon Dursley seemed rather stunned—before jogging after him, up a pair of stone steps, to a peeling green door upon which an elaborate knocker in the form of a mass of twisted snakes was placed.

He knocked thrice, three heavy thuds, and then the door opened.

* * *

**Ahem. I may or may not be procrastinating writing their meeting. Anyway…love it? Hate it? Have suggestions? There's this cute little box below. It'll only take a second…**

**Thanks to all my great reviewers! I was so overwhelmed and grateful at your positive responses. You make my life!**


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